I should have phoned you over
But I always want to write you,
Write a poem but there is nothing
There, on paper
Getting at some particular approach.
That picture in front of
The Weiner-Mobile we took
Of each other in the back winds
Of your phone memory.
It passes as a flag as a fabric
Limb my reptile self will
Not wear again.
I am a parade degrading with
Marches forward. March on.
March your hunger on its own
Repulsion ends in sex and food.
Repulsion in your modern gut
Reactor, name, your term
of endearment
It’s always broken off
In charged pond broadcasts
Of stone hurls from the cruel
Hands of a boy, the cruel hurling
Of this poem too
Is its boy without attention.
This poem, where your future
Occurred on your palm lines
Are still palm lines.
They lie on your palm anyway.
The first moth flew in my desk lamp
And all soft animals are young again,
Entire species borne in each new heat,
Not dying without everything with them.
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